


pick up the pieces and go home

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Angst, Drinking, M/M, a bit of past jevcardo, a tiny bit of hurt/comfort, bad memories, this was not supposed to be so sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 09:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15883260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: It occurs to Jean-Éric that he might feel more for André than he’s ever felt for anyone; he doesn’t know what to do with that thought, not now with the season over and the summer stretching out before them endlessly.





	pick up the pieces and go home

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the second race in New York. This started out as a PWP and became something entirely different. So, I remembered that André drove that one race for Caterham back at Spa in 2014 and started thinking what if him and Jev had a moment together back then, and my brain conjured up a whole load of angst.  
> This was quite a struggle to finish but I've kind of got it to a place where I either stare at it forever or just post the thing. 
> 
> Title from Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac.
> 
> Thanks to B and S for the encouragement.

“Does this look okay?” Jean-Éric asks, frowning and turning to look in the mirror, adjusting his bow tie a little, wishing now that he’d bought a pre-tied one rather than trying to do it himself. It’s not too bad, he decides, it’ll probably do.

“It’s not straight,” André tells him, smirking a little as he steps up behind Jean-Éric, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck before reaching around to pull the end of the bow tie, the velvet coming loose from the bow it's been fashioned into, effectively rendering Jev’s last ten minutes of effort thoroughly pointless. He starts to protest but then André is shushing him, turning him around and lifting his collar so he can rearrange the fabric, looping it into a perfect bow in no time at all before standing back to admire his handiwork.

“Perfect. Now where’s your cufflinks?”

Jean-Éric thinks he can manage to put his own cufflinks on and is slightly affronted at this, but he hasn’t the heart to protest, something in André's expression causing him to bite his tongue and play along. He sits down on the edge of the bed, arms outstretched as André kneels on the floor in front of him, taking first his left wrist and then his right, light glinting off silver as he folds back the cuffs of the dress shirt, threading each cufflink in turn through the buttonholes. Jean-Éric watches him, looking down at the grey that peeks through at his temples, knowing that even though it suits him so much it’s also one of those sore subjects that André wouldn’t want him to explicitly point out.

The attentive manner with which André works is captivating, it reminds Jev of earlier when he was trying to concentrate on what his engineer was saying only to get distracted at the sight of his teammate across the garage fixing the rain visor to his helmet, enraptured by the steady movements of his fingers.

“There,” André says, rocking back on his heels and inspecting Jean-Eric’s shirt cuffs until he’s satisfied with the symmetry, finally turning Jev’s hands over in his own so that his palms are upturned before pressing his lips to the centre of each of them, almost nuzzling a little as he rests the side of his face against the Frenchman’s thigh for a moment, something uncharacteristically needy in his movements, as if he’s seeking forgiveness for the start of the race earlier in the day that Jev suspects is still weighing on his mind. Jean-Éric smiles at him, stroking his cheek. “Whatever would I do without you,” he jokes lightly, unwilling to let the thought sink in.

“It’s all those extra years of perfecting my style,” André tells him, running his fingers lightly over Jev’s crotch before he moves to stand up, even though they both know there’s no time for anything now; something to come back to later.

“Yeah I’ve seen some pictures of you when you were younger,” Jev snorts with laughter, “I don’t think your style was perfected that early.”    

"Late night google search was it?" André raises his eyebrows, Jev feeling a blush creeping up his neck. Unwilling to elaborate, he gets up from the bed, moving aside the couple of mini bottles of Mumm they'd quaffed from the minibar earlier and grabbing a small bottle of Stoli from the fridge in a  _ start as you mean to go on _ frame of mind.

“Take it easy tonight yeah,” André tells him. “I don't want you passing out on me later before we get to the fun stuff.”

“Are you trying to suggest I can't handle my drink?” Jev challenges, struggling with the lid on the vodka, before relenting and letting André take it from him.

“I know you can't. Or have you forgotten what happened the first time we met?” André replies teasingly, opening the bottle easily and taking a sip before placing it on the dresser.

Jean-Éric casts his mind back to Valencia, the tentative first steps towards friendship, towards more. They'd gone for a beer when testing was done, but that had been it, a couple of beers and just one glass of Agua de Valencia because he was trying so hard to keep his wits about him and get a handle on André without giving too much of himself away.

“I wasn't drunk in Valencia,” Jev declares triumphantly, reaching for his suit jacket and sliding it on before turning back to André expectantly. They're already running a little late.

“See, you don't even remember,” André teases, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. “I'm wounded that you've forgotten the first time we met.”

Jean-Éric frowns at him.

“In Spa,” André prompts, “back in 2014.”

Jev’s breath hitches. He'd stepped around to look in the mirror as he buttoned up the suit jacket and now he’s caught between his own reflection and André behind him. The Belgian catches his eye in the mirror, grin falling from his face as he takes in Jev's expression, the tense set of his mouth and the way his shoulders have slumped a fraction inward.

Jev sees the retort that the older man was preparing die right there on his lips and panic has him suppressing a shiver at the way André can see through him right now, more exposed than if he was naked, tied to the bed. He's learned to be comfortable that way, trusts André enough that he can give himself over without fear of his willingness being used against him, safe in the knowledge that André doesn't see it as a weakness. There are other ways to be weak, Jev knows, but he thought he had those under control where André was concerned. It’s the rush of memory that throws him so far off balance, as if he’s been shown a picture of himself from years past and can see the discomfort shining out through glassy eyes, dragged back into the feeling of being trapped inside his own skin, every door closed, every hope crushed.

“I guess I’ve got my shit together a lot since then,” he says quietly, following it with an altogether forced laugh, hollow to his own ears so he can only imagine how fake it must sound to André. Snatching the vodka from where André has placed it on the dresser, Jev upends the remainder into his mouth, swallowing it down like it isn't 40% proof and revelling in the distraction of the burn in his throat.

“Jev, what--”

“We’re going to be late,” Jev cuts in, glancing at his watch and away from André’s piercing stare, which he can feel even through the tinted prism of the sunglasses, not looking back as he walks over to the door. He’d been enthused for celebrating last night, when obviously they couldn't really do so. Tonight it’s as if it’s all fallen a little flat with the loss of the team championship, which he can see is still a weight on André’s mind, and this other sudden revelation that Jean-Éric wishes he could wipe clean out of existence. He’s aware that André has a past, even if the Belgian has guarded it so fiercely that Jev has nowhere to begin; it hadn’t bothered him and even the moments of curiosity he’s had have been outweighed by the fact that André hasn’t asked anything of him – hasn’t pushed and pried even when Jev has felt that he’s wanted to.

Maybe it was naïve of him to think that they could run a relationship as if they’d both just fallen to earth that first time they met back in Valencia, which of course Jean-Éric realises now was in fact not the first time at all. He flinches away in the taxi when André tries to take his hand, half-ashamed.

*

Jean-Éric’s mood does improve as the night goes on; the gala is full of people he cares about, people who he's proud to have been on this journey alongside, to have succeeded with, and he allows himself to bask in the glory a little, to enjoy the added respect he can see in the eyes of everyone he speaks to throughout the evening. Maybe it was there before but it feels cemented now, the title is his and no one can wrench that back from him.  

André is elusive throughout the night, disappearing into the throng of guests after they've posed for an initial photograph together at the start of the evening. At dinner they're at opposite ends of the same table, the clamour of conversation echoing across the cavernous space making it impossible to speak to one another. Jev watches André flirt with the attractive brunette at his side, their hands brushing as they reach for the bottle of Cabernet Franc even though the waiter has been round to top them up just minutes earlier.

Jev wonders if he's doing this on purpose, if this is some sort of test or game designed to rile Jean-Éric up - payback for his earlier silence - or if André is simply bored, in need of an easy distraction from his thoughts. Jean-Éric looks away, picking apart the layers of his  _ pomme anna _ and thinking about how his grandmother's was much better. When he looks up André is staring at him from across the table, a frown creasing his forehead for a moment.

Jean-Éric has spoken at hundreds of events before, done enough PR to last a lifetime, its second nature to him now and yet when he takes to the stage to accept his trophy alongside Sam and Lucas it feels as though he’s caught in some sort of hyper-lucid dream. He presses his thumbnail hard into the soft flesh of his palm for reassurance that he’s not actually about to wake up in his old flat in Milton Keynes, dark curls tickling his face and no idea of the horrors of life to come.

It makes his stomach lurch a little, but then the trophy is being presented to him and it’s his name etched onto it. When he looks out across the room, unconsciously seeking André, he finds the Belgian smiling right at him, pride and affection soft in his eyes, making Jean-Éric’s heart swell with a longing that steals the breath from his lungs. It crosses his mind briefly, the thought of where they might be at next year, what might happen if they find themselves in a position to both be fighting each other for this title. He's seen the destruction that kind of thing can bring - but it's different here, he reassures himself. 

This isn't Formula One.

Yet wherever it is, he knows it’s irresponsible to be getting so involved with a teammate, something he’d promised himself would never happen again, but when he’d voiced that – and okay, it had been a minor protest, given that André’s fingers had been inside him at the time and no, of course Jev didn’t want him to stop – André had just laughed, as if he was entirely unconcerned about what might happen.  _ Live a little _ , he’d breathed against Jean-Éric’s hip, and Jev wanted to.

He doesn’t think about André again for the rest of the evening, caught up in being congratulated by everyone he knows and plenty of others he doesn’t, his phone still constantly vibrating with text messages the way it has been for the last twenty-four hours.

Past midnight he finds himself heady from the wine, slightly uncoordinated as he dances with Sam’s mum, straining to hear the anecdote she’s trying to tell him over the slow, dirty bassline of the song that’s playing. Arms around his waist make him gasp in surprise, a touch he’d recognise across continents and lifetimes, in another world. “I think I’m done here,” André says in his ear, his fingers still resting just above Jev’s belt, warm against his skin through the shirt. Jean-Éric excuses himself from Diane, turning in André’s embrace.

“I can see you back at the hotel if you want to stay longer,” André continues, but his eyes are tired and his touch addictive as ever. It’s almost 2am, Jev doesn’t need to stay until the night gets so messy that he can no longer remember it.

His hand finds André’s on the drive back, their fingers entwined and Jev’s championship trophy in the footwell between their feet. Jev rests his forehead against the window, looking out as the city shifts by in a blur of colour and lights. It’s rained again since they’ve been indoors and the sidewalks are still damp with water, the air warm and fragrant filtering in through the open front window. It occurs to Jean-Éric that he might feel more for André than he’s ever felt for anyone; he doesn’t know what to do with that thought, not now with the season over and the summer stretching out before them endlessly.  

Beside him André releases his hand, tugging Jev towards him until he gets the hint, resting his head against André’s shoulder as the Belgian’s hand drifts down to his thigh. The music playing low on the radio is something classical that Jev doesn’t recognise, jaunty and meandering, making him think of podiums and anthems. He closes his eyes for a moment, attuned to the movement of the car, the jolting motion of the potholes on the road impacting him further into André’s loose hold, smiling as he feels the brush of lips against his hair.

Jean-Éric does remember Spa, even as he hasn’t thought of it in a long time, a wall built around it as with most of the darkest memories from that year. He remembers the futility of the entire weekend, the name  _ Max Verstappen _ on everyone’s lips and glances of thinly disguised sympathy sent his way, no one daring to broach the subject of where he’d be racing next year even as it was now clear there was no longer a seat for him at Toro Rosso, no place for him at Red Bull. He’d failed to get into Q3 and had finished the race outside the points, despondent and exhausted. It hadn’t taken much for the drinks to go to his head at the after-party, probably a consequence of whatever salad he'd had for dinner on that particular day being small enough to never fill the hollow feeling of nausea he’d become accustomed to carrying around with him. He shudders, pressing his face against André's shoulder, inhaling the scent of his skin, the familiar fragrance of his aftershave. 

Jean-Éric  _ craves. _

2014 feels so long ago now that thinking of back then is almost like recalling a movie you watched as a kid, the details sketchy with distance. If Jean-Éric had held out any hope for him and Dan it had well and truly disintegrated that weekend, the agony of seeing the Australian on the top step of the podium for the second race in a row cutting deep and all the optimism he'd tried to maintain over the summer break rapidly disintegrating. Jev tried to be happy for Dan, embracing him when the race was done but after that preferring to give him a wide berth, the warmth of Daniel’s joy not enough to thaw through all his bitterness on that particular occasion.

It’s vague as hell really, flashes of his own face reflected back at him through the mirror in the men’s room, the inescapable knowledge that all his desperate efforts through the season so far had come to nothing, his options run thinner than the sand slipping through his fingers that day years back on the beach in Perth, the time they'd taken a heli over to Rottnest and he'd snapped Dan's photo with a Quokka, joking that their smiles mirrored each other. That particular memory doesn't hurt anymore but his naïveté at thinking what they had back then would last still holds an uncomfortable sting.

He remembers stumbling, that night in Spa, his head spinning as he grabbed for the sink to steady himself, missing entirely and lacking the co-ordination to get up again. He’d closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Dan’s laughter, loud and joyous from the bar, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them, tears welling in his eyes. He isn’t sure now as he wasn’t sure then how long he’d stayed like that, just that after some time had passed he’d been helped to his feet, swaying and more emotional than he would ever have wanted anyone to witness. It’s the kindness that sticks in Jean-Éric’s head, being guided to a booth in a quiet corner of the room, someone handing him a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap when he’d struggled with it and guiding it to his mouth. Maybe he’d vomited, he thinks now, face flushing in disgust. He’d been helped back to his room, he knows, clinging to his good samaritan and letting himself be half undressed, tipped carefully into bed and covered up with the duvet, paracetamol and more water placed on the side table.     

The next day he'd convinced himself it was probably Jules, or one of the team personnel, yet when he thinks of it now he remembers that of course it was André, the other driver never gracing the F1 paddock again and Jean-Éric grateful for it, so many other bad things following on that year that he'd forgotten the incident completely until earlier that night.

By the time the car pulls up outside the hotel Jev has sobered up a fair amount, trying to anchor himself in the present even as he's a little sleepy from the journey, trophy in one arm and the other slipped through André’s casually as they head for the elevator. André’s room is closer and so that’s where they end up, Jev placing his trophy down on the floor and turning to push André back against the door as soon as it’s closed behind them. There’s a reticence in the way André looks down at him, half a challenge.

Jean-Éric remembers they are both champions now.  Yet still it feels as if he has a point to prove as he cups André’s face with his hands, pressing their mouths together in a kiss that is miles from the soft, languid manner in which Jean-Éric so often kisses him, swallowing up André’s surprised gasp as he swipes his tongue demandingly across his teammate’s mouth. André goes with it, letting Jean-Éric direct it, content to relinquish control for now as if he can sense that Jev is trying to prove he’s a different person now from the broken Toro Rosso driver he'd ended up taking care of four years back.

They stand like that for a while, rocking against each other, kisses becoming more uncoordinated until their lips are just brushing together almost chastely, Jean-Éric desperate to avoid eye contact with André. He can sense André’s hesitance from the way he holds himself, the tension where Jev’s hands rest on the toned muscles of his upper arms, almost as if he’d pull away if there was any space to. Jev pushes his hand down between their bodies, palming André’s half hard cock over the thin material of the suit trousers, desperate to avoid the idea of stopping and going to sleep, or worse – talking. André says his name and Jev can’t tell if it’s a plea or a warning so he stops mouthing at the older man’s jaw and sinks down to his knees, unzipping the trousers and pulling them down to mid-thigh, rubbing his cheek against André’s hardening cock.

If it  _ was  _ hesitance then it evaporates quickly, to Jev’s relief. André’s fingers stroke down the sides of his face, ghosting over his lips before tangling lightly in his hair when Jev starts to mouth at him, licking at the cotton of his underwear and flicking his tongue over the patch of dampness where pre-come stains the material. André bites back a moan, his hands tightening in Jev’s hair when the Frenchman lifts the waistband of his underwear to lick at him, revelling in the way that André shudders and throws his head back against the door.

Jean-Éric loves this, partly because he knows he’s damn good at it but also he takes secret pleasure in being able to take his teammate apart this way; with other lovers it had always just been about trying to get each other off but with André it feels more than that. Sex with André isn’t like sex with anyone else and Jev would fret about what that means if he allowed himself the space to think of it. He prefers not to dwell too much on that, concentrating instead on wrapping his lips around his teammate’s dick, sliding down around him until he’s struggling not to gag, his fingers bruisingly tight on André’s hipbones; the ache in his knees and the intake of breath from the older man’s lips is just what he needs.        

André fingers trace down the hollows of Jean-Éric’s cheeks, soft noises of encouragement spurring him on until he's torn between wanting to make his teammate come like this and wanting André inside him, filling him up until he’s a mess of sensation, until he forgets that he was ever anyone else, unable to remember any of the things he wishes he could let go of completely.

In the end the latter option wins out and Jev lets André guide him over to the bed, the rest of their clothing discarded along the way. There’s something wild in André’s blue eyes that Jev can’t place, unnerving him momentarily and causing him to wonder how long (if ever) it will be before he can read André the way that André can read him. Every single  _ what are you thinking about _ he’s ever asked has been met with a variation on the same jokey non-committal answer to the point where Jev doesn’t know what’s real and what’s for show. Jean-Éric lies back onto the pillows, spreading his legs wide and wrapping a hand around his dick, displaying himself in a deliberately pornographic fashion just to see the way that André’s eyes darken with lust. André plucks a condom packet and a bottle of lube out from the bedside drawer, watching Jean-Éric for a moment before flicking the foil packet onto his chest, shaking his head when Jean-Éric tears it open and reaches for André’s cock.

“Not tonight,” André says, Jev frowning in confusion until André motions for him to move over on the bed. He grips Jean-Éric’s dick at the base, rolling the condom down onto him as Jev’s thoughts collide all at once.

“Tonight I want you to fuck me.” André leans down to kiss him with a surprising softness before turning onto his knees and elbows and Jev, Jev thinks that surely this is something they should have talked about first and he hadn’t even known that André had any inclination at all for bottoming for fuck’s sake. His heart stutters erratically as he tries not to panic, to just go with it. It’s not as if he’s never fucked anyone before, he knows how it works, what to do, even though it has been quite a while. That’s not the thing that’s shocked him into a state of motionlessness. He wants to ask if André is sure, but it feels like a foolish question even as it lingers on his tongue. Out of everyone he knows, André is possibly the strongest, the strength of his convictions carrying him decisively through life while Jean-Éric feels mostly like he’s always just been bound by circumstance. He’s tried to break out of that the last couple of years, to varying degrees of success. André glances over his shoulder, a predatory look in his eyes that belies the softness of his smile. 

It’s okay to let go, Jev tells himself. It’s okay to lose yourself if it’s in a way that means your skin won’t be crawling with self-hate the next day. He feels like he’s never fully mastered that without carrying a degree of shame with him for it. That André seemingly has no such inhibitions is refreshingly new, the way he can just throw himself into things, can ask for help if he feels like he needs it as he did earlier in the season with getting to grips with the car, is a difficult concept for Jev to grasp. He lets himself imagine for a second what might happen if he were to kiss André right in the middle of the paddock, there in front of everyone, whether André would go with it and say to hell with the facade of being straight, with the lines of friendship that have blurred, or if it would be too much for either of them. 

_ Just to let you know, I'm gay,  _ André had said bluntly in Hong Kong at the afterparty, his hands on Jev's hips as they'd danced, those blue eyes piercing and honest even after however many vodka diet cokes. Jean-Éric had nodded and reached for his drink, trying not to choke on it; he hadn't offered up his own orientation in response but had admired the balls of just jumping in there and not giving a shit. 

He inhales deeply, moving so that he’s behind André on the bed, smoothing a hand down the older man’s back, leaning forward to kiss between his shoulder blades, feeling the power in the shift of his muscles. André groans beneath him, urging him to get on with it and shamelessly rubbing his arse back against Jev’s dick, impatient. Jean-Éric wraps his arms around him, stroking teasing fingers down his stomach softly before reaching for his dick, giving it a few firm strokes to distract him. It’s the fact that it’s André, that’s what’s throwing him off balance. The times he’s done this before with Daniel when they were younger it was different, fumbling explorations where neither of them really knew what to do beyond trying desperately to make each other come, inexperienced and in love enough that whatever they figured out was always going to be good.

Jean-Éric wants it to be better than good for André, wants to make him whine and moan and come hard and heavy onto the sheets, screaming validation that Jev can lose himself in. He feels a little lost like this though, with André on his knees and elbows on the bed before him, unable to see his face or read in his eyes what feels good.

“Fuck Jev, get on with it,” André grits out as Jean-Éric lets go of his cock and slicks up his fingers, spreading André wide and playing them wetly over his hole. He presses the tip of one finger into him just to let him get used to the sensation, before realising that of course what André wants is rougher than that, the “make me feel it in the morning” he’d said as he rolled over floating at the surface of Jean-Éric’s mind.

André opens his legs wider, head dropping down to the pillow as he curses when Jev curls his finger just right before leaning down to lick around it, knowing that André probably won’t be expecting him to do that, trying to tip the balance between them.  The lube tastes predictably nondescript but the way that André shifts and rocks back against him greedily is enough to spur Jean-Éric on, sliding his finger out and circling André’s hole with the flat of his tongue before pushing the tip into him, licking him open and reaching around to cradle his balls, feeling André’s thighs shake as a string of curses falls from his lips.

“I didn’t know you were gonna be like this,” André says breathlessly, the admiration in his voice spurring Jev on. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come if you keep on like this,” André continues, squirming, and Jean-Éric feels immeasurably proud.  He goes back to fingering him, purposely and with more skill now, stopping the second André urges him that it’s enough, even though if it was Jean-Éric in his position he’d need much more.

He’d lamented not being able to see André’s face, yet there’s something about taking him this way that allows Jev to lose himself fully, to live out the fantasies he’s never managed to vocalise. As he’s rubbing the head of his cock against André’s hole he imagines doing this without a condom so he can fill André up and lick his own come out of him – it’s a conversation they haven’t had yet, and one that would imply something more than they’ve managed to acknowledge. The thought causes a blush to creep across his face, but as he slowly presses his cock into the tight heat of André’s body he forgets to be ashamed, overwhelmed at the feel of his teammate around him and breathing raggedly as he fights not to immediately come. He grips André’s hip, leaning forward so he’s draped over his teammate’s body, licking at the sweat on his skin. He feels dazed by it all, the entire weekend rushing through his mind in a tangle of emotion as he waits for André’s body to accommodate him. The broken sounds his teammate doesn't even bother to suppress are new to him and it makes Jean-Éric both infinitely happy and terrified, as if André has infiltrated every part of him and he isn’t even sure how he’s let it happen, why he needs it. 

It seems like a lifetime before André finally tells him to move, starts pushing back to meet Jev’s shallow thrusts and urging him on between breathy grunts and moans. “You’re so good,” he repeats over and over and Jean-Éric loses himself in the praise, abashed that he needs it yet basking in it at the same time, groaning André’s name along with a string of curses when he feels his teammate tense, his ass squeezing Jev’s cock tightly as he comes all over the sheets, Jean-Éric spilling into the condom a few thrusts later. “God, André, I…” Jev begins, his lips against André’s sweat-soaked skin. He can’t quite finish the sentence.

“About earlier this evening,” André starts to say when they’ve cleaned up with reasonable sufficiency and Jean-Éric is dozing in the warmth of his arms. Jev’s eyes snap open, pulled away from the relaxing sensation of André’s fingers stroking through his hair. He might've known André wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.

“It wasn’t supposed to be anything,” André continues before Jean-Éric can protest, “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

Jev shifts away from his embrace, rolling back onto his own half of the bed and turning onto his side only to find that André has mirrored the movement, the Belgian facing him, watching him carefully, his face silhouetted in the clean light from the lamp. He thinks about pretending he doesn’t know what André means, dismissing it. Their eyes meet momentarily and Jean-Éric’s breath catches at the intensity of André’s gaze; it makes him want to give up everything, all his fears and secrets. He feels like André probably knows most of them, despite his efforts to the contrary.

André reaches out to touch him, sliding a finger slowly down his jaw, tracing over his pulse point before dropping to the sheets between them. Jean-Éric closes his eyes, releasing a long, slow breath. “It was a bad time, back then,” he says. “I…”  _ I what...I started to believe I was worthless because other people seemed convinced I was.  _ He doesn’t know how to say that, not to André, not to anyone.

“You don’t have to say anything else,” André tells him when it becomes clear that the words are stuck in Jev’s throat.     

Jev tries out the words he thinks he should say in his head, imagines his whole history spilling out, all the good and the ugly. Instead he finds himself thinking of the trip they have planned for next month together, of deliberately getting lost together in the narrow alleyways between whitewashed buildings, the air dry with heat and faint aniseed mingling with the salt that rolls in off the ocean. He’d been afraid to ask, turning the idea round in his head, eventually texting Nic  _ do u mind if I ask André to Mykonos with us? _ – half in the hope that his friend might protest, and then when the  _ sure _ had come back he’d stared at his phone for ages, convinced that even if he did ask, André would say no, would already have plans for every day of the break.

The easy manner in which his teammate had accepted the offer had confused him, as if André didn’t even need to stop and think about what it might imply about them, about what they are and what Jean-Éric wants them to be. Jev doesn’t know why it’s important to him that they have some time together away from racing; maybe because with Dan that had never been a possibility, the opportunity for it to be real was never available to them.

“You get lost sometimes...” André says fondly, breaking the tangle of Jean-Éric’s thoughts, reaching to touch him again. He traces his thumb over the arches of Jev’s eyebrows, down across the elegant lines of his cheekbones. Jean-Éric’s eyes flutter closed for a moment.

“I’m working on figuring out where you go to.”

_A lot of different places_ , Jean-Éric wants to tell him, the past – the future. Occasionally he thinks about the time when Petra left, why she left. But then Petra had never really known him, the effort of trying to cultivate a persona he thought would appeal to her had just been another thing to add to a long list of bad decisions. He’d tried to be the racing driver he thought she’d wanted, self-assured and unswerving in his egoism. He’d tried to be like André appears on the surface, he realises now, even though there’s a world of difference between the two of them.

After Petra, Jean-Éric had perhaps foolishly thought he could get by in life with just the occasional fuck here and there, that losing himself in the soft warmth of whichever model or hanger-on was attractive and willing enough to go back to his hotel room after a post-race party would be enough. He’d thought it was enough, it had seemed to be for a while until somewhere along the way it had become only André’s bed he kept falling into, time and time again, their lives intertwined so carelessly and Jean-Éric not even stopping to think what would happen to the world he’s built for himself if they were suddenly, violently wrenched apart by the reality that inter-team relationships are almost always doomed to failure.

Still, are they even having a relationship or is he being indulged; enjoyed and humoured? Jean-Éric does know the answer to that, shimmering confusingly under the surface of all his other emotions. He does know but it isn’t explicit enough, it exists in touches and glances, play fights that end in hands on skin and he knows, he knows there’s plenty of drivers in the paddock, teammates even, who flirt and fuck. This isn’t simply flirting and fucking and he needs André to say it, he needs to know that this is  _ it  _ because for the life of him he can’t imagine ever wanting anything else.

“You have time to find out,” Jean-Éric acquiesces, parting his lips to press a kiss to André’s knuckles. He wants to elaborate, to let go, even though he knows he’s not ready to. He wants to say more, but then André is kissing him.

“I’m not going anywhere, you know,” André breathes against his mouth, reading Jev’s mind in that way that he so often does. He snakes an arm around Jev's waist, sliding up his back to trace the bumps of his spine. 

“I know,” Jean-Éric replies. 

 


End file.
